It's a Gamble
by oreocheesecakes
Summary: Snippets from the series in Maxon's point of view. Sort of like a continuation of The Prince. Enjoy! :D
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Maxon's my favorite character in the book, and I really enjoyed The Prince. This scene is my doing, but the rest of the chapters will mostly be "deleted scenes" or significant scenes in Maxon's POV. They'll also be longer than this.**

**This happens after America and Maxon's first meeting.**

**I do not own the Selection series.**

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**PROLOGUE**

_"You're too stupid to see love when it stands right in front of you."_

I can't even count how many times Daphne's words have echoed in my head. But I couldn't stop thinking about them—they cut right to the core of my greatest fears about the Selection.

_"You'll find a wife because you have to . . ."_

I ran a hand through my hair, growling in frustration. _Of course I have to, _I thought helplessly, and the words sounded pathetic even in my head. I needed to find a wife, and it was tradition that a prince of Illea marry a commoner in order to appease the people. But more than that, the Selection was my one shot at love, my one chance at happiness.

But what if . . .

_Shut up, Maxon, you have enough what ifs to last your entire life, _I told myself. I leaned back into my chair, sighing exhaustedly.

I tried to convince myself that my worries were baseless. The Selection had been going on for decades. If there were something wrong with it, it would have been abolished years ago. So surely, it was effective.

A quiet, familiar knocking interrupted my mental debate. I smiled; I had learned long ago to distinguish the kinds of knocks on my door: a harsh, loud knocking meant my father, while sharp, urgent knocks meant servants. But the one at that moment . . .

"Mom," I greeted her upon opening the door.

She gave me a quick smile. "May I come in?"

"Of course." I motioned for her to come forward, and she strode in gracefully, but quietly. Just like she always was.

I watched as she made her way across the room. She had undergone the Selection herself, and she was happy with Father. He always said that though she grew up as a Four, she was born to be queen—and it seemed true; she had a regal air around her, but nothing near as arrogant as my father's. She was generous and kind, and even possessed some kind of royal beauty.

I swallowed. What were the chances that I would find someone even close to her in the pool of thirty-five Selected? Then again, Father _did _filter the results, and he obviously had more experience than me in choosing who was princess material.

"So the girls are finally here." Her voice pulled me back to reality. I turned; she was sitting on my bed.

"They are." I wondered if that was a good thing. I thought about America Singer and her feeling like the entire palace was a cage. Not that I could blame her.

"Are you excited?" she asked me, unconsciously glancing at the door that lead to the princess' suite.

_She used to sleep there, _I thought. _And at the end of this, someone else—my wife—is going to be there._

"Maxon?" Her voice cut through my thoughts. She was looking at me worriedly.

I cleared my throat, trying to wipe all uncertainty from my face. "Sure."

She gave me one of those it's-no-use-lying smiles. "It's okay to be nervous, dear."

_Dear. _America hated being called dear.

I sighed. "Thanks. I just—what if I don't know what love is?" I blurted out. Then I realized that I was talking to my mother and looked away in embarrassment. Another thing I hated about the Selection—I was being thrown into it with no experience or knowledge. As if dating were supposed to be second nature for me. And to top it all off, most of my attempts at romance were to be shown on national television.

Mom looked surprised at my outburst. "That's what's bothering you?" She had obviously been expecting something else, probably something that seemed more consequential.

"Yes," I admitted, ashamed. "How would I know if I just like her, or if I just think she's pretty? What if I don't even know how to love someone I _do _like properly? What if I mess up everything or what if she doesn't like me back . . . or . . . or . . ." I trailed off. I was wringing my hands, and even I could hear the desperation in my voice. It was rare that I fell apart like this, much less in front of my mother.

She pursed her lips. "Well, I can't really explain it, Maxon. You can't prepare for this kind of thing. You have to learn the hard way—you have to stumble and fall. You'll probably make more mistakes than you can count."

I winced. Mom had always been a comfort. But to be honest, her words were only agitating me even more.

"But more than anything, loving someone is a gamble. It's about gut feels and impulses and taking chances. It's a high risk—you'd be putting your own heart on the line."

"Why would anyone take the risk, then? Why would _I _take it?" I demanded.

Mom smiled softly. "That's exactly how you'll know if you really love someone, Maxon. If, even against all odds, you'd still be more than willing to take the risk for her again and again."

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**How'd you like it? Leave a review for my first published Selection fanfic? :)**

**Oh, and if you have any suggestions for a better title, I'd love to hear them! :D I'm thinking about changing it, but I don't know what to replace it with.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: So I recently found out that The Prince has an exclusive ending when you buy it together with The Guard. I wrote this chap before that, so I guess this is kinda non-canon compliant now, but that's why it's called fanfiction, right?**

**And thank you for all the reviews, faves, and follows (I call them RFFs)!**

**I do not own the Selection series.**

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She was downright impossible.

_Gut feels_, my mother had told me. All I could feel was throbbing—and it wasn't even in my gut. South of it, to be exact.

I hobbled back to my room, gritting my teeth. So America Singer had a temper that could rival my father's, and a tongue possibly sharper than Daphne's. Not to mention a very strong knee and quick reflexes.

"Your Majesty?" I heard a maid ask in confusion; I probably looked ridiculous. But I just shook my head, wanting to be alone.

I opened the door and headed straight for my bed, immediately collapsing on top of it.

I was hurt. Though my physical injury was rather crippling, the sting of betrayal wasn't something I could just ignore, either.

I thought she wanted to help me, to become my friend. I had shown her nothing but kindness, and she repaid me with a knee to the groin. Because she thought I was _that _kind of guy.

Forget offending—it was absolutely humiliating. What had I ever done to give her that kind of impression? I thought back to our few interactions—I hadn't done anything near seduction. Goodness, I could hardly even flirt with her! So where on Earth had she gotten that idea?

I sighed. Honestly speaking, her behavior was enough reason to send her home. And quite frankly, I had considered it.

But I couldn't.

Her family needed the money. And there was someone back home—someone who had her heart but had carelessly shattered it to pieces—whom she couldn't bear to see. As much as she had hurt me, I couldn't bring myself to do the same to her. I was a gentleman, even if she thought otherwise.

But . . . those weren't the only reasons.

She intrigued me the most out of the other candidates, surprising me at every turn. I just couldn't understand her—she made crying women seem like a children's puzzle. There were times when she was playful and relaxed, and I liked that side of her. But as I learned, she could also be like a volcano waiting to erupt at any moment—and though I'd been unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end of that (more than once, I might add), it just made her seem more real. She wasn't afraid to show her flaws—obviously, she was making no effort to impress me—but unfortunately for the both of us, it was exactly what was drawing me in. She was straightforward yet complicated—guarded and unguarded at the same time.

In much simpler words, I guess I could say that I liked her, in the raw sense of the word; no deeper meanings or italics. And in my book, liking someone and loving someone (or liking someone _that _way or _like _liking someone for that matter) were two very different things.

I liked her and her feistiness and her not wanting to be called _dear_, and I wanted to get to know her better. I knew she told me that she wasn't entertaining any possibility of romantic feelings for me, but I didn't care. I had only scratched the surface, but I could tell that she was someone worth knowing. And maybe, _just maybe, _someone worth loving as well.

I couldn't explain my certainty; I just_ knew._ I was aware that I was acting against rationality (I repeat, a logical person would have sent her home by now), but something in me was so stubbornly determined to win her over, no matter what she did.

The corner of my mouth pulled up in a smile. _Gut feels_, Mom had said.

I leaned back into my pillow, this time thinking back to the earlier, pleasanter part of our stroll. My first "date." Far from perfect, definitely, but what mattered was that I spent it with her.

I thought of the little bits of information she told me about her family. I admit, I was a bit taken aback when she told me that she was the middle child of five, because first of all, I didn't know families grew to be that large. Apparently, it was normal—America said that she wanted lots of children herself. I blushed immediately upon remembering this, thinking that maybe that was something too personal for the current state of our friendship/relationship.

Second of all, I had no idea how it felt to have siblings. Sure, I had my little cousins, but I only saw them on holidays and rare visits. It must be quite something to have someone who had the same parents as you, someone to grow up with, to argue with. Maybe that was part of why I liked being around America—I had missed out on sibling rivalry, and being insulted and questioned by someone other than my father was a pleasant change for me.

Then again, maybe being an only child was a good thing in my case. It would certainly give the entire palace one less person to worry about whenever rebels attacked.

But I couldn't deny the envy I felt whenever America talked about May. Her features seemed to soften, and her tone of voice alone told me that she loved that little girl immensely. I was positive that that strawberry tart-loving sister of hers adored her just as much.

I smiled once more. I had to thank that non-crier someday. She won me a date with America! _And unknowingly robbed her sister of the chance to escape dresses for a week, _I added sheepishly.

I couldn't help but chuckle, feeling a tiny bit guilty. I'm not quite sure what the other girls would have asked for, but I was certain it was not anything close to what America wanted. She requested something daring yet so simple; how could I deny her?

I stood up. Only a ghost of the pain was left, as if it was there just to remind me of its existence. I went over to my desk and looked through the drawers. Finally, I found a small card and sat down to write a message.

I made sure the card was on top of the beautifully wrapped package of pants that was sent to Lady America's room.

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**Yes, I love dashes.**

**What'd you think of this chap? Constructive criticism and comments are always more than welcome! :D**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Hi again! First of all, I'd like to apologize for the long gap between this and the previous chap. I'm a writer who runs on feels, and I think I drained my Team Maxon feels with the last chapter. I spent some time recharging :) But anyway, this chap's pretty long, so I hope that sort of makes up for the delay. Thank you to everyone who's still reading!**

**Second of all, thank you all so much for the RFFs—especially the reviews, which really warmed my heart. I didn't expect such nice feedback :) A shoutout to SJwrites2014 and Guest Mih—my fellow dash lovers! Still, I think I should tone down my dash usage xD **

**I think I've said enough. Here's the next chap! :D**

**I do not own the Selection series.**

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"Midston has been chaotic lately." Setzer, head of the Citizen Safety Committee, jabbed a finger at the map laid out on the table. "I suggest we fund the drafting and training of more soldiers, and then send them there to control the situation." Several heads nodded in response to his idea, including my father's.

"Excuse me, Setzer, but don't you think we're barking up the wrong tree?" Mom asked gently. "Prevention is always the best cure, and it is my humble opinion that we can lessen the number of people who do become criminals by educating them. From my experience as a Four, people do crazy things when they're desperate, as desperation tends to blur the lines between right and wrong. A good education can play a big role in imparting proper values—"

"Your Majesty, since you've become queen, the budget for education has increased by 100%," Setzer said, taking care to keep his tone respectful. Still, I could tell that he hadn't forgotten how the aforementioned increase had been the result of his own committee's funds getting cut. "I repeat, funding the—"

"There was hardly any budget to begin with," she interjected. Her voice remained even; if there was something my mother never did, it was yell. I glanced over at Father, who turned out to be studying the brewing argument in silence. Despite all his arrogance, he was never particularly forward during budget meetings, for some reason.

Meanwhile, Setzer was losing his patience. "Your Highness—"

"Actually, Mother has a point." I interrupted him. I couldn't just sit there and do nothing—I believed in Mom's cause just as much as she did. "Roughly 40% of crimes are committed by Sixes and Sevens, who benefit from the school systems. There's a good chance that allotting money for its improvement would indeed—" I cut myself off after realizing that no one was paying attention to me. Setzer had barely turned at my words, talking to Father instead of hearing me out.

I sighed in frustration. Father always told me to be active in meetings, but having my opinions overlooked all the time was extremely discouraging. I tried to tell myself that I would get more of a say when I became king, but I hated thinking of my plans for the future when I was fully aware that I could change things much earlier—if only they listened.

As if she could read my thoughts, Mom glanced over at me and shot me a quick, knowing smile as small consolation. _I'm sorry, Maxon, _I could just imagine her saying. _It's just the way things are._

"Amberly," Father addressed her. "Setzer's idea gives us a fairly immediate solution, but education is going to take years to be effective. I know you want to give more to the schools, but you must remember that we're already stretched thin because of the rebels and the Selection. If there were some way—"

"Your Majesty," Reagan spoke up. She was the newest adviser, as well as the only other education advocate beside Mom and I. "I believe that Kent has been quite peaceful lately, and seems to have no urgent need for funding. Perhaps we could take from their—"

"Nonsense. We cannot touch the budget of one province without changing another," Lukas, another adviser, argued.

"But why not? Based on their statistics, they can manage perfectly well—"

"Reagan, equality is of utmost importance. We don't want the people to assume that the royal family is playing favorites," Lukas explained. "Think about it. What you're suggesting would be like lessening a Selected Two's compensation in order to increase that of a Selected Five's."

"That _does _sound unfair," another committee head, Amber, murmured. I nodded, thinking of the candidates. Whatever their caste, all their families were missing a daughter, and they deserved the same amount of compensation for that.

Reagan let out a frustrated sigh. "But it's only fair that the province that needs the most—"

"Miss Adams."

Silence fell across the room as soon as my father spoke. I couldn't help but feel a small twinge of envy at how he had commanded total attention with only two words.

"We understand what you're trying to suggest, but in the interest of keeping this nation together, I cannot allow it. We need not give reason for the rebels to increase in number."

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Reagan's shoulders slump in defeat. I couldn't blame her—I really did see her point. Still, there was truth to my father's and Lukas's words.

"As you wish, my king." The submissiveness rang loud and clear in her voice.

I sighed once more. Budget meetings were _always _like this—Mom wanting more money for education, advisers arguing, Father acting as a mediator, and me getting ignored.

Of course, I detested them. They were extremely tedious, and for all our efforts and statistics and proven points, we never got _anywhere_. To be honest, the only things we got out of these wretched meetings were wasted time and energy.

I crossed my arms, leaning back into my chair. The only thing left to do was to wait until this whole thing was over. As was usual.

At that moment, a maid came in, carrying the tea I had requested for a while back. They usually served coffee at meetings, but I avoided that drink as much as possible—what I needed was something to calm my nerves, not something to keep me awake at night. God knew I was fully capable of that myself.

"Your Majesty," she said in a voice that was barely a whisper. Clearly, only I was meant to hear what she had to say. "A message for you." She smiled, looking pointedly at something on the tray as she set it down in front of me.

"Thank you," I told her. She nodded, then left the room.

Curious, I immediately looked through the tray and found a small, folded piece of paper peeking out from underneath a saucer. Doing my best to remain discreet, I opened the note.

_Your Majesty—_

_Tugging my ear. Whenever._

Hardly three sentences, but they were enough to give me a panic attack. America needed to see me.

"Excuse me," I announced. Everyone looked up at me curiously.

My father's gaze, however, was irritated. I had apparently interrupted some kind of important discussion. "What is it, Maxon?"

I made up some excuse about forgetting an important paper in my study. "It has the latest statistics regarding poverty in Illea, as well as a proposed budget distribution I did myself," I lied, knowing he couldn't say no to that—a chance to point out everything wrong with my work.

The advisers and committee heads nodded, and so did Mom. Father's expression showed only the slightest hint of suspicion—an ordinary person wouldn't have been able to see it—but he gave me permission anyway.

As soon as I was out the door, I moved as fast as I could. What if she was hurt? Or sick? Or if the rebels attacked her family?

_Again with the what ifs, Maxon,_ I told myself. But they weren't for my sake this time. They were for someone else's.

I found her in a hallway, looking at some paintings. I jogged over to her, full of apprehension.

"America?"

She turned, and to my great relief, seemed unharmed. But I wasn't close enough to get a good look.

"Are you okay? What's wrong?" I instinctively grabbed her wrists and quickly searched her face for any sign of anxiety or pain.

Instead, surprise and confusion colored her expression. She told me that everything was fine, and I let out a breath. Still, I was skeptical. Why else would she want to see me?

"Just to see you," she told me.

I froze. America . . . just wanted to see me? All worry instantly left me, and I couldn't hold back my grin. It was great enough that at least one of the girls seemed to enjoy my company, but I could hardly believe that it was _America_.

"You just wanted to see me?" I repeated. I probably looked like an idiot, but I just couldn't wipe the smile off my face.

"Don't be so shocked. Friends usually spend time together," she said a matter-of-factly.

Her tone shook me back to reality. She was being a _friend_. Of course she was. She had told me from the very start.

_Impulses indeed_, I thought, remembering Mom's words. It was embarrassing how quickly I had gotten my hopes up and watched them crash down with one nonchalant sentence.

But at least this was some progress, miniscule as it was. She wanted to spend time with me, and that was a miracle in itself already.

It then hit me that I had hardly seen her the entire week. Balancing work and the Selection were even more difficult than I thought—trying to squeeze in getting to know a bunch of girls in between learning how to run a country wasn't exactly an easy feat. As if that weren't enough, I had to do everything perfectly and live up to my father's expectations, which were probably somewhere just above the clouds.

"I didn't mean to neglect our friendship, America," I apologized, but tried to sound as professional as possible. It was a professional friendship that we had, after all.

That, however, didn't mean that I wasn't going to do my best to keep it. But pleasing everyone was just so hard.

Heaven knew I tried, though as my father continually reminded me, it wasn't enough. Aside from deeming most of my proposals (be it something as simple as what color the guards' uniforms should be or as complicated as which troops to send over to which border) ridiculous and inefficient, he criticized me constantly about my slowness in the Selection. Hopefully, I had appeased him a bit when I sent home a girl—Janelle, if I remember right.

I frowned in disgust at the memory of her. America had hinted that the competition was a bit fiercer than I initially imagined, but I could hardly believe that one of the girls would stoop so low as to bad-mouth a fellow contestant in front of me. I may have tolerated it if I hadn't known who she was talking about, but unfortunately for her, I knew America enough to be sure that Janelle was speaking nothing but lies about her.

"You look busy," America's voice cut through my thoughts, and I realized that I had almost forgotten she was right in front of me. "Go back to work, and I'll see you when you're free."

"Actually, do you mind if I stayed a bit?" I asked her. Without waiting for an answer, I led her to a nearby sofa, hoping to get her to agree. Though the mere thought of going back to the meeting and listening to all the futile arguments truly horrified me, it wasn't as if I could pass up an opportunity to spend time with her, either.

To my relief and mystification, she giggled when we sat down. "What's so funny?" I asked.

"Just you. It's cute to see that your job bugs you," she said, smiling. I felt my heart leap at her words. My decision to stall returning to the conference room was turning out better than I expected. "What's so bad about the meetings anyway?"

"Oh, America!" I instantly launched into a rant, spilling out all my complaints and frustrations about them. It was the first time I was ever able to talk about this to anyone besides my mother, and I found it a nice change to actually be listened to, to feel like my opinions mattered.

The conversation soon drifted to education, and I was a bit irked that America wasn't all for giving to the school systems like Mom and I were. I thought that she of all people would understand, being a Five.

But as she explained her view, I realized that she was right. We had never really thought about the Eights, as they were hardly even considered citizens.

"Besides . . ." She paused. "Have you ever been hungry, Maxon?" She asked me what I would do if my parents and I were starving, and the only thing I could do about it was to steal.

I pondered on it quietly. Stealing _was _tempting in that situation. But my education prevailed—taking someone from something was wrong, no matter how you put it. I had basically grown up with laws, and I had attended enough meetings to know that every possible loophole had been—and was being—studied thoroughly and eliminated.

"Close your eyes, Maxon."

"What?" I said, surprised.

"Close your eyes," she repeated, and I followed.

"Somewhere in this palace, there is a woman who will be your wife." I smiled at that. America always gave me hope when it came to the Selection; aside from the fact that she was living proof that I had someone on my side, this was the second time she assured me that I would indeed find someone worth marrying at the end of this competition.

"Maybe you don't know which face it is yet, but think of the girls in that room. Imagine the one who loves you the most. Imagine your 'dear.'"

Inadvertently, a girl's face came to mind, but she didn't fit any of the criteria America had given me. The person I imagined was definitely not my dear. I was pretty certain that she didn't like me as much as I would have wanted, either. And she wasn't even in the room.

She was sitting right next to me.

Before I knew what I was doing, I reached for her hand, my fingers brushing against hers. She withdrew instantly.

"Sorry," I mumbled in embarrassment, glancing over at her shocked face. I needed to learn how to keep control of myself around her. Not as easy as it sounded, considering that she was exactly what made me lose it.

"Keep 'em closed!" I had to chuckle.

"This girl, imagine that she depends on you. She needs you to cherish her and make her feel like the Selection didn't even happen. Like if you were dropped in the middle of the country to wander around door to door, she's still the one you would have found. She was always the one you would have picked."

My shoulders slumped, and I lost my smile. I could never promise that. She had just mentioned the greatest what if of this entire contest, and it didn't really help with my confidence.

But I let her go on. She told me to imagine that I had no food to give her, and that the girl was so, so desperately hungry . . .

"Stop!" I couldn't take it. I couldn't imagine America gaunt and weak and desperate for even a crumb. I couldn't imagine anyone like that.

I walked across the hall, trying to calm myself. The picture America made me conjure was like a nightmare, but the worst part was knowing that it wasn't. It was happening in my own country. It was happening at that very moment.

I pressed her for more details, and she told me about a boy who was whipped for stealing out of hunger. "Sometimes you do crazy things when you're desperate," she said sadly.

I stiffened. That was pretty much the same thing my mother had said at the meeting. "A boy? How old?"

"Nine," she whispered. I stretched my back, feeling every lash that my father had given me, every scar that remained there. It was bad enough that he had done it to me for merely defying him, acting against how he wanted me to. But it was even worse that the same was being done to someone who was desperate, who was pushed by his own growling stomach. A child, nonetheless.

But if America knew this boy . . . it meant that the whipping had occurred in her hometown. If someone were starving in their town, and America was a Five, then there was a good chance that . . .

"Have you—" I cleared my throat. "—have you ever been like that? Starving?" I braced myself for the answer, dreading it.

She didn't say anything, but she ducked her head—a reluctant yes.

"How bad?"

"Maxon, it will only upset you more."

"Probably," I agreed, nodding. So what if I was upset? It was the least I could do—people were _starving_."But I'm only starting to realize how much I don't know about my own country. Please."

She sighed, but consented. She told me about exchanging electricity for food, and her sweet, innocent little sister not understanding why they couldn't exchange gifts one Christmas.

I paled. Nothing could have prepared me for that.

Yet America was a Five. How much worse was it for the Sixes? The Sevens? The Eights?

My thoughts were probably written all over my face, because she tried to cheer me up by telling me how helpful the checks had been, how much I'd done for them . . .

But I now knew that I had a great debt to these hungry people. And I planned to do everything in my power to repay every single cent of it.

I went over and kissed her forehead. "I'll see you at dinner," I told her before walking away.

It was only after a few steps when I realized exactly what I had done—shown her an open gesture of affection. But I pushed it out of my mind. There were more pressing problems to deal with at the moment.

I straightened my tie. People were starving in my country, and it was my duty as prince to do something about it.

_Think,_ I ordered myself. Maybe we could deliver food to the Fives, Sixes, Sevens, and Eights? But that would require food deliverers, cooks, transportation—I shook my head; my project needed to be both effective _and _efficient.

Maybe the lower castes could gather somewhere, and then local officials could distribute the food. Yes, that would work. Each Province Services Office _did _have a rather large hall . . .

I smiled. With the venue already covered, it wouldn't cost much—

I stopped. How in the world was I going to fund this?

I leaned against the wall, running a hand through my hair. Any proposal I had would be worthless if we couldn't fund it. I _had _to think of some way.

_". . . but you must remember that we're already stretched thin because of the rebels and the Selection."_

The Selection. That was it!

The Selection was _my _contest. Technically, I was in charge of it, not my father. I was sure to be listened to, and I could make new rules if I wanted, provided that they were fair.

Now, if I could just find some way to lessen its budget in favor of my project. Maybe I could decree that the Selected wear cost-efficient pants instead of expensive gowns? _No, they can't all be Americas, _I thought wryly.

The only other thing I could think of was the compensation, and it wasn't something I could manipulate either.

"_Equality is of utmost importance . . ._ _What you're suggesting would be like lessening a Selected Two's compensation in order to increase that of a Selected Five's."_

_"That _does _sound unfair."_

_No, _I thought. _What's unfair is the lower castes trying so hard to feed themselves while the upper castes bathe in luxury. _Equality, I realized, was giving everyone the same amount. Fairness was giving everyone what they _needed._

Twos and Threes had no need for extra money, while others would treat theirs like a lifeline. If I were to take away the compensation for the upper castes then I would have . . .

My eyes widened after I had estimated the amount. It was much more than I expected.

A new sense of determination filled me. I walked with confidence to the conference room, not in the least worried that I was going back without an important paper.

I had more important things to say.

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**I guess I failed in minimizing my dashes :))**

**I based the fairness vs equality thing from something I saw on 9gag (I can't remember when). And Setzer was named after a Final Fantasy character (for some reason, it was the first name I thought of.)**

**How was it? I spent a good amount of time writing about the meeting, trying to make it as canon-compliant as possible. But in the end, I was like, it's fanfiction. Straying a bit from canon isn't a crime.**

**I know it was a little low on fluff, but I'll try to make up for it next chap :D**


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